Obscure and Lonely
by Asilda
Summary: When Arthur and Cobb met, Cobb specialized in subconscious security. Arthur was already an extractor.  They found themselves at odds when Cobb agreed to perform one extraction. Why? Because Arthur was the one Cobb was trying to extract from.
1. Chapter 1

**Obscure and Lonely**

**1**

"I need your help Dom. I can't do this without you."

Cobb looked at Mal who looked just as uneasy as he did, then he shook his head. "You're talking about extraction," he said in a strained voice. "We specialize in subconscious security. You're asking us to do the exact opposite of what we strive to do."

His friend fixed an intent look on him. "But you know how to do it. Just like computer security experts have to know how to hack in order to know how to keep someone out, you have to know how extractors work so you can stop them. That's what I'm asking you to do. Just this once. Please."

"I don't know . . ." said Cobb.

"I wouldn't be asking if I had any other options, but I don't. I'm asking you as a personal favor. As a friend. We go way back . . ."

Cobb sighed and forced himself to meet his friend's eyes. "We do go way back, Julius," he said to the older man who'd once been one of his father's closest friends. "But what you're asking us to do . . . you want us to hack into someone's mind and steal from them."

"He's the thief," Julius Marx said, "not you. My business associates and I have reason to believe that he is involved in a major conspiracy against us. He may have acquired enough information to bring down all of our companies. I'm not asking you to rip corporate secrets from his mind, or gather information to use to blackmail someone. I don't even need you to find out what he knows. All I need is for you to find out who he's been in contact with, who he's trying to gather his information for. That's it."

"It doesn't sound like it would be too difficult," said Mal to her husband. "A little manipulation, a few of our special tricks, and we could find out what Mr. Marx needs to know."

"Please, my dear," said Marx, "Call me Julius. Dom's practically my godson, which means we're practically family."

"Daddy's your son?" four-year-old Philippa asked from atop her daddy's knee. "Does that mean you're my grandpa too?"

Marx gave Philippa a radiant smile. "No, my dear, regretfully, I'm not. But I knew your grandpa, and your grandma on your father's side. Mark my words, one day you'll be just as beautiful as she was."

Philippa gave a delighted laugh. Cobb felt a twinge of unease, but couldn't pin it down to any one thing.

"It would be one thing to try an extraction from a regular corporate spy," said Cobb, "but an extraction from a highly trained extractor is a completely different animal. He won't be any stranger to lucid dreaming, and chances are high that he'll know what's going on immediately."

"Which is where our tricks come in," said Mal. She took his hand and smiled. "I already have a plan, dear. Or at least the start of one."

"And actually, chances of him being highly trained are low," said Marx. "He's . . . well, he's got the look of an amateur."

Something about that remark didn't sit well with Cobb. "What do you mean by that?"

"He's not very experienced," Marx said. "I would swear to it. I truly believe that you can help me, Dom. And you might be the only one. Please. If you don't I could lose everythin."

Cobb sighed. Julius had been exaggerating when he'd said that they were practically family, but the man was an old friend. He looked once more at his wife, who nodded, and then gave the answer that he knew he'd give all along. "Alright," he said. "We'll try."

Julius grinned. "I knew you'd come through for me, Dom."

"I'm going to have to call in some back up," said Cobb. "Extracting from an extractor isn't going to be easy and we're going to need an ace up our sleeves."

* * *

They met at Marx's villa, which was a very large house built on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. They'd meet their subject there, or their target, as they had to start thinking of him as, as well as the man who would hopefully be their ace in the hole.

"Eames, meet Julius. Julius, Eames. He has some experience with both extraction and subconscious security."

Eames shook Julius's hand as he stepped into the house.

"Well, that sounds like it will be helpful," said Julius.

"Not in and of itself," Eames told him with his trademark grin. "You see my specialty lies in twisting a person's perceptions of his own perceptions. And to do that I need to know at least a little about our mark. So what say you show me him, as well as everything he had on him?"

Julius grinned and nodded. "That's what I like to hear," he said and motioned his guests inside. He led them through the villa which Cobb actually knew the layout of quite well, up to the second story, and into one of the darker central rooms with no windows, thus no natural light. "We've been keeping our special guest in here," he told them and flicked the light switch.

It took a couple seconds for Cobb's eyes to adjust to the change in light. When they did, he felt his stomach start sinking. In the center of the room, tied securely to a metal chair, was a skinny, dark haired kid.

"What?" he heard Mal whisper.

Not even Eames had a wisecrack, even though those were more his specialty than forgery. The kid just looked so pathetic and young, sitting there in a drugged sleep that there was absolutely nothing funny about it.

A couple dark bruises showed up on the pale skin of his face, like someone had worked him over, and his clothes, an expensive three piece suit, were wrinkled and stained with blood. An IV stand stood next to him, connecting him to a bag of ominous looking viscous liquid.

Cobb turned on Marx furiously. "Tell me that that is not sodium-pentathol!"

"It's not," said Marx quickly. "We couldn't have kept him on a drip this long and have him still be alive, you know. Truth serum was the second thing we tried. It didn't work, so we've given him a few days to get it out of his system before trying extraction."

"And the first thing you tried?" asked Eames, his sardonic tone more bitter than usual. "Beating it out of him?"

"Perhaps you three have forgotten that, despite this man's youthful stature, he is still a coorperate spy," said Marx. "He stands in a position to bring down not just my company, but several of my friends' as well. I've only done what I've had to. He was the one who made the decision to get involved in this sort of life."

That was true, Cobb knew, though it was hard to take into account when their subject looked like he belonged in highschool. Jeans and a t-shirt would have suited him better than a three piece suit.

Cobb forced himself to be objective. "What do we know about him?" he asked. "What did he have on him when you found him?"

"Not much," said Marx. He walked over to a table that had several objects on it. "A wallet with no ID. A watch, a flashdrive that we haven't been able to open because its files are encrypted, and a note that doesn't say much of anything.

Eames picked up the scrap of paper and read it. "Arthur, I can't thank you enough for everything. You're doing a good thing, but I know you know that. And I know that it's not about the money for you, no matter what you claim. I just wanted you to know that I know that, because as much as you try to pretend you're not a good person, you are one, and I believe every good person needs to know that at least one other person knows who they are inside. Be careful, and please, don't take any more risks than you have to. You've more than done your part already. God bless. Your coworker, but more importantly, your friend, June."

"Looks like June doesn't know Arthur as well as she thought," said Mal. "Unless she doesn't consider coorperate espionage to be a bad thing."

"Arthur," muttered Cobb, staring down at the boy in front of him. A suspicion had entered his mind. An idea that was going to plague him now until he had confirmation about whether he was wrong or right. Fortunately, there was an easy way to find out.

"What are you doing?" asked Eames, when Cobb began to untie Arthur's tie.

"His name is Arthur," said Cobb. "Or at least it's more likely his name is Arthur than June. Arthur's not a rare name, but it's not that common. And in our line of work . . ."

"No," said Eames incredulously. "You don't really think this kid is . . ."

"He's too young by far," agreed Mal. "Arthur Pendragon has been extracting for at least eight years."

Cobb knew they were probably right, but he needed to know for sure. As he removed the kid's tie he noticed something odd. There were several old scars under the boy's chin. They were smoothed over and pale from time, but they looked like they'd been very painful at one time. They had the look of old burn scars. He filed that bit of information away and began unbuttoning Arthur's shirt. After the third button he drew up short as more scars began to appear. "Jesus Christ," he whispered and forced himself to continue.

"Bloody hell," agreed Eames as he saw what made Cobb take the lord's name in vain. "The kid looks like he went nine rounds with Wolverine!"

The scars started right below his neck, and stayed out of sight as long as he wore a collared shirt. Anything lower cut and they would have been visible. They were old, but ugly, and very obviously intentional. Someone had slashed the kid's torso multiple times, with some sort of bladed contraption with four separate, parallel blades.

_"Mon Dieu . . ."_ Mal took a step closer and her eyes grew wider and wider.

"That's not from me or my men," said Marx defensively. "We never took a blade to him. We never took off his clothes either, so I didn't even know those were there."

"They're old scars," said Cobb to let Marx know he was off the hook for this. A good thing too. If Cobb had thought Marx was responsible for this, he would have called off the mission right then and there. There were some lines not meant to be crossed, and torturing a kid was definitely one of them.

"Someone certainly hated the little darling," commented Eames.

Mal began unbuttoning Arthur's vest so that Cobb could unbutton the shirt further. Finally, he had gotten it undone enough to reveal the mark he'd been looking for. Over the left side of Arthur's chest, right over his heart, was a tattoo. A medieval-looking dragon. A mark that had been whispered about in the extractors' circles for years, that was, so they said, borne by the best extractor in the business. The rumors had begun back before the extraction technology's devices had become more stream-lined, back when the devices still included chest sensors, and a young new extractor with scars all over his chest that looked like they'd been made by giant claws, and a dragon tattoo above his heart had turned up with a knack for never failing. It seemed the rumors hadn't emphasized just how young the then-new extractor was.

"Pendragon," whispered Mal, looking at Cobb then Eames, then Marx. "This is Arthur Pendragon."

"That can't be his real name," insisted Marx.

"Of course it's not," said Eames. "No extractors use their real first and last name. Maybe one or the other, but they never hand out both. All the good ones know better than that . . . and Arthur Pendragon . . . well, he's the very best. Better than Penrose even."

His voice held a warning note for Cobb and Mal. Not only was it going to be very difficult to extract information from the man rumored to be the best extractor in the world, but there was something else that had to be considered too. Arthur Pendragon, like his mentor Penrose, was rumored to have standards for all of his jobs. He never hacked into someone's mind unless he believed that someone deserved to have the information he was seeking extracted, and he rarely took jobs for employers whose moral standards he did not agree with. If he now stood in a position to topple several companies with the information he'd extracted from their owners, then it could very well be that the people involved deserved it.

"He got the tattoo after he got those scars," said Cobb, looking at the dragon closely. "The ink goes right up to the edges of the scars then stops. There's no jagged lines of ink shading the scar tissue. So the tattoo was gotten after he got those scars."

"We have no way of telling how old either of them are," said Mal, but there was doubt in her voice too now. "But the scars do look old. Four years at least. Probably more."

"Why does it matter?" Marx wanted to know. The significance of who this person was obviously eluded him.

"It matters because if he really is Arthur Pendragon then this job has just gotten a lot more complicated," said Cobb.

"But you can still do the extraction, right?"

Cobb was about to answer Marx, but was distracted by a groan from Arthur.

The boy raised his head and blinked drowsily, then looked right at Cobb, confusion obvious on his young face. Then, as awareness began to set in, he must have realized that he was tied to a chair, and his eyes dropped to his unbuttoned shirt and vest. Fear rushed across his face as he looked at Cobb again. Pure dread and terror. Irrationally, Cobb felt the urge to try to comfort the kid. But then all of Arthur's emotions washed away, leaving only a cold mask in their place.

"Keep your hands off of me, asshole," he said, and Cobb would have sworn that the temperature of the room dropped about a dozen degrees.

"Such a foul mouth for such a young man," said Marx, moving closer and picking up the IV needle, which seemed to have come dislodged from Arthur's arm while Mal was unbuttoning his vest. The older man raised the needle and shoved it directly into the vein in Arthur's throat. "Mark my words, child, by the time my associates and I are finished with you, we'll have taught you some manners."

Hate darkened Arhur's eyes right before they went dim again, and his head dropped forward so that his chin struck his chest.

* * *

AN: Well, if I didn't believe what Cobb says about ideas the first time I heard it, I definitely do now. I have one chapter left of my Percy Jackson/Kane Chronicles fic left to write, and I need to update my Artemis Fowl fic too, yet here I am starting a new one, because this idea took root and wouldn't let me go, lol.

This fic isn't related in any way to my other Inception fic 'Monochrome' which was a oneshot. The rating is for language (I tried to mimic their curses of choice from the movie) and for mentions of human trafficking in the upcoming chapters.

Please review! I plan on continuing whether you do or not, because like I said, I'm infected by the idea now, but if I know what you like and don't like then hopefully I can put in more of what you like and make it a better story!


	2. Chapter 2

2

The next time Arthur woke up he was still chained to a chair, but now there was a bright light shining right in his face.

Someone sat behind that light. _A man,_ Arthur thought as he blinked and tried to get his eyes to adjust. _I'm screwed. _

"Well, Mr. Pendragon," said a voice that was familiar in a very vague and hazy sort of way, "all that remains is for you to tell us who your employer is."

Something was off.

"What?" he asked. His voice came out as a croak, rough from disuse. His mouth was as dry as sawdust.

"Who is your employer, Mr. Pendragon? Tell us and we'll let you go."

"You're lying." Arthur closed his eyes. The light stung them too much, but it was nothing compared to the dread that was pooling in his stomach. He'd screwed up really bad, letting himself get caught by these freaks. Of all the dangerous people he'd extracted from, the camorra, the yakuza, the Russian mafiya, dozens of cutthroat business men, crooked cops, corrupt brokers, inside traders, rogue government agents and spies, out of all the people he could have been caught by, he'd gone and let himself fall into the hands of a human trafficking ring. "If I tell you anything, you're just going to pump me full of drugs and hand me off to one of your pervert friends."

"What?" the man's voice sounded genuinely surprised.

"I said you're an asshole," said Arthur, even though they both knew that wasn't what he'd said. At least not in so many words.

"You should know that we have our best hackers working to decode the information on your flashdrive," said the man.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why bother?" asked Arthur. "You already know what's on it. Or did you accidentally dissolve your own harddrives with those acid vials you keep balanced inside of them? Are you really that desperate to retrieve those copies?"

Silence. The man didn't have an answer. And the nagging feeling in the back of Arhur's mind began to rise to the forefront again.

_Something's not right here. Something's off. Focus . . ._ It wasn't easy. His head was fuzzy, probably from the truth serum cocktails they'd been plying him with all week. The electro-torture hadn't helped either.

"We have your coworker, you know," said the man.

"No you don't. I've been working this job alone."

There was the rustling of paper, then the man started reading. "Arthur, I can't thank you enough for everything. You're doing a good thing, but I know you know that. And I know that it's not about the money for you, no matter what you claim. I just wanted you to know that I know that, because as much as you try to pretend you're not a good person, you are one, and I believe every good person needs to know that at least one other person knows who they are inside. Be careful, and please, don't take any more risks than you have to. You've more than done your part already. God bless. Your coworker, but more importantly, your friend, June."

June.

Something was very, very wrong. A coldness settled into his spine, like a cancer, nagging him, bothering him, making it impossible to concentrate on anything.

"This note led us right to her. We fingerprinted it. We found her that way. And now we've got her in the next room." The man sounded uneasy now. "We really don't want to hurt her. We're not complete barbarians after all –"

Arthur laughed derisively. "Why? What's the matter? She too old for your tastes?"

From the next room there was some noise. The thick walls muffled some of it, so Arthur couldn't hear what was being said, but the voices got through. One was very familiar.

_June. So they do have her._ For some reason that thought didn't bother Arthur as much as it should have, but he didn't know why. He liked June. She was a nice lady, the very best person he knew. The thought of her in the hands of these freaks should have upset him to no end. There was a reason that it didn't, but he couldn't remember what that reason was.

The door opened.

"Cobb," said a new voice, "you need to see this."

Behind the light Arthur saw the man's silhouette move. A moment later the door closed and he was alone again.

* * *

"Jesus Christ!"

The sight of the woman tied to the chair in front of him was enough to make Cobb sick, even though he knew she was only one of Arthur's projections. He'd brought her here after being given the right cues. That went according to plan. What they weren't counting on was that half of her face would be peeled off, revealing bone and raw muscle, or that there would be a large chunk missing from the back of her skull. Her brains were actually visible, and were scrambled and mixed with blood. There was more blood on her clothes, particularly on her skirt, which Cobb thought was dark red at first, then realized was actually supposed to be a light grey.

"What the hell is going on with this guy?"

The woman's eyes snapped up to lock on Cobb's. It was disturbing since one of them was missing its eyelids and was hanging halfway out of its socket. The other side of her face was beautiful, and only made its opposite side look even more sickening.

"You did this to me."

"What?" Cobb stared at her. "You mean . . . Arthur did this to you?"

"No, you pervert!" snarled Arthur's projection of June. "You did this to me! You and your sick employers!"

"What? No-"

"Child molesters! Pedophiles! Perverts! When Arthur brings your slave ring crumbling down around your ears I will buy a bottle of scotch and raise him a toast. Or at least I would if I wasn't already dead."

Cobb looked at Eames who looked just as bewildered.

"What do you mean?" asked Cobb.

"Don't you pretend you're innocent!" screamed June. "You did this to me! You and your bosses and your pervert friends! You tortured me and then put a bullet in my head and it was all for nothing. Arthur's finished the job. Even if you kill him, it won't matter now. Everything's already in motion. By tonight your world will have fallen apart."

"The people Arthur was extracting from . . . are involved in human trafficking?" asked Eames since Cobb didn't seem capable of speaking.

"Were involved," said June with a cocky smile that only covered the side of her face that still had lips. "Like I said, by tonight you'll all be in jail. And you know what they do to pedophiles in prisons, don't you? You and all your sick friends are going to get exactly what you deserve."

"Julius Marx was one of the people Arthur was investigating?" asked Cobb. He needed to hear this for sure, in as many words.

"Julius Marx is the fucking ring leader, you syncophantic tool," sneered June. "He's the one who ordered this done to me. Wouldn't do it himself because I'm too old for him, but he had plenty of thugs who were into real women as well as little girls."

"I think I'm going to be sick." Cobb turned away from the grotesque sight before him.

"Cobb," said Eames, "I think we've made a big mistake here. I think we're on the wrong side of this one."

Cobb nodded weakly. "You're right," he said, "but I don't know how to fix this."

Eames nodded at the door. "We could start by trying to have a talk with prince charming in there."

"Shit." Cobb wiped his suddenly sweaty hands on his pants legs. "He's in big trouble. Really big trouble."

"I'll say. If Marx is really involved in human trafficking then there's no way he's letting our little darling go alive."

"It's worse than that," realized Cobb remembering the comment that Arthur made earlier with new perspective.

_"If I tell you anything, you're just going to pump me full of drugs and hand me off to one of your pervert friends."_

That was the fate that Arthur was dreading. Cobb remembered the fear in the kid's eyes when he woke up and found someone unbuttoning his shirt and vest.

"We have to try to save him."

"But how?" asked Eames.

"We'll think of something. We'll have to talk to Mal too. Thankfully, these dreams will give us enough time." He opened the door. "Arthur," he said, "we need to – Holy Mother of –"

* * *

Arthur realized what was wrong almost as soon as the man, Cobb, had left. That was June's voice that he heard in the next room, but at the same time, it couldn't be June. Not really.

Because June had been dead for three months.

The logical conclusion was the obvious one. He was dreaming. These fuckers were trying to perform extraction on him. _Him!_ They were hacking into his mind, trying to find out who knew what he knew, and how to stop the information from spreading.

They were too late.

The information had already been post marked. By now his employers, a very wealthy publishing firm that specialized in the ugliest truths, had received the evidence. Indisputable evidence that incriminated a number of major business tycoons. The only reason they were waiting to break the case was to give him an opportunity to escape the net that had been closing in on him for the past month. They were waiting for confirmation which they had never gotten, and probably would never get. At Arthur's instructions, they were to sit on their story for no more than five days. If he hadn't managed to contact them by that point, then he probably never would be able to. Now he was only sorry that he'd told them to wait so long. Who knew how many lives had been ruined during the five days he'd spent being doped with truth serums?

He thought that five days had passed, at least. It seemed like a lot longer, but then, he couldn't be sure anymore because he was dealing with extractors and dreams, where five minutes were an hour. He couldn't trust time anymore.

I should wake up. Or maybe I shouldn't. Arthur wasn't in the habit of lying to himself. It only made everything confusing in a world where he was never one hundred percent sure that he was awake anymore, even when he really was awake. He knew that the rest of his short life was going to be miserable, and that before the first day of it was up, he'd be wishing he was dead. _This dream isn't so bad. They're not torturing me yet. I could rest here. Enjoy what might be my last few minutes of serenity . . . or I could say 'fuck you' to those second rate extractors, just to piss them off._

Arthur decided to go with option number two. He cast his gaze around, looking for an out. It was difficult to see because of the light shining right in his face, and he was bound to the chair too well. There was only one way out that he could think of, and it was about as crude and inelegant as anything he'd ever done to wake himself up from a dream, but he was pretty sure it would work.

So Arthur bit down on his tongue as hard as he could. Tears sprang to his eyes and blood began filling his mouth. Lots of it. He bit down harder as he felt the blood start to escape from his lips and trickle down his chin. It hurt worse than he'd expected it to, but it wasn't the worst he'd experienced, not by far.

"Holy Mother of –"

The extractors were back.

"Oh, you little fucker."

"What is he . . . is he biting off his own tongue? Jesus!" Cobb was holding something to Arthur's mouth, trying to wipe away the blood, but not doing much good. "Damn it, kid. We're trying to help you."

Arthur would have laughed derisively if he'd been able to. He closed his eyes and increased the pressure his teeth were putting on his tongue, and finally felt them click together as he bit all the way through it.

"Cobb, we can't have a very good conversation with him in this dream," the other extractor pointed out as Cobb continued trying to . . . well, Arthur wasn't sure what the man was trying to do. Bandage his tongue maybe?

"Shooting him in the head isn't exactly going to gain his trust, Eames," said Cobb angrily.

Arthur thought it was a little late to be trying to gain his trust at this stage in the game, and decided that these guys were probably the worst extractors ever. He laughed and choked on his own blood . . .

. . . and was suddenly back in the room he'd been in most of the weak, still tied to his chair, but hooked up to the dream machine along with the world's worst extractors. Whoever had sent these clowns to try to break into his subconscious must not have known that he was Arthur Pendragon.

A change had been made to the room. He noticed it immediately. A computer was against one of the walls, already booted up, some sort of deciphering program running. The stupid jerks actually were trying to break into the encrypted files on his flashdrive. From the looks of things, whoever it was had just stepped out, and only for a moment. A styrophome coffee cup sat on the computer desk, upright, but probably at least half empty. The dark liquid that it had held was pooled around it and dripping off the edge of the desk, onto a puddle on the floor.

Arthur sighed and struggled against his bonds. To his surprise, there was more slack in them than he remembered. He tugged against them again, then twisted. The needle in his arm stung as he twisted, but he ignored the pain. The ropes were definitely looser now. He had a chance to escape. Not much of one. The extractors were probably only seconds away from waking up, and whoever had been working on the computer would be back soon, but this was the biggest break he'd had since he'd been captured.

Arthur groaned as the ropes dug into his wrists and arms, and thrashed wildly for several seconds, before regaining control over himself. Escaping from ropes required precision and control. He concentrated on getting free, twisting and turning just right, and finally, one arm was loose. From there, getting out was much easier. He had himself untied in seconds, and stumbled toward the door.

The door opened before he reached it, and in stepped a tall, beautiful woman with a roll of paper towels in her hands and a gun in her holster. Surprise crossed her face as she saw Arthur making a break for freedom, and she dropped the paper towels and pulled out her gun. Before Arthur could take another step, she'd put a bullet in one of his kneecaps. Arthur screamed as pain exploded through his leg and went down hard.

"Sorry, boy," she said, "but a woman's got to do what a woman's got to do."

Arthur wanted to curse at her, but was far too distracted by the pain in his leg. The bullet had shattered his kneecap, he was pretty sure. Even if by some miracle he survived this nightmare, he would never walk again.

As he writhed the computer made a beeping sound. Not a beeping like an error was popping up. More of a successful chime, like getting a 1-up in a videogame.

"Would you look at that?" asked the woman. "My encryption program has finished decoding the files on your flashdrive. I think I'll take a look. Don't try going anywhere unless you want to get shot in the other leg too."

Arthur was in no shape to be moving any way except for crawling, and was in too much pain to even be doing that. He curled in on himself, trying to block it out, but the attempt was in vain. He started to wonder if maybe he should bite off his tongue again, this time for real. That way the pain would only last a few minutes, then he'd be gone for good this time.

"Oh my God." The woman sounded floored. Even in his haze of pain, Arthur could tell she'd been shocked. "Mon dieu, what is this?" The mouse clicked frantically as she opened the different files. "These documents . . . these pictures . . . they're all . . ."

"Mal, don't shoot him!" Cobb bolted out of his dream and looked around wildly, unhooking himself without even looking at what he was doing. "Oh, shit."

"Dom!" said Mal urgently. "Dom, these files. They're horrible. He's not the one whose mind we should be hacking into." She motioned at Arthur. "The files he stole from them, they're all –"

"I know," said Dom. "We figured it out down there." He hurried over to Arthur and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't touch me!" shouted Arthur, trying to roll away.

"Hey, hey, it's okay. It's okay, Arthur," said Cobb, like he was talking to a frightened child rather than the world's best extractor.

"Fuck you!" Arthur thrashed as Cobb pulled him upright.

"You're going to be okay, just calm down a second." Cobb moved so that he was in front of Arthur.

Arthur glared back at him hatefully and made his decision. "I'll see you in hell, you sick bastard," he spat and bit down on his tongue.

At least he tried to bite his tongue again, but Cobb's hand was suddenly in his mouth, keeping his jaw from closing.

"Don't! Arthur, you need to listen to me!"

"What the bloody hell is going on up here?" demanded Eames, waking from his dream. "You were supposed to tell your wife not to shoot the kid."

"I didn't make it in time," said Cobb. "Give me a hand with him, will you? He's trying to bite my fingers off!"

"Why are your fingers in his mouth?"

"So that he doesn't bite his tongue off and kill himself again!"

"You know, gagging him doesn't seem to be the greatest way to earn his trust. Neither does kneecapping him."

"What's going on?" asked Mal.

"If everyone will just stop shouting or trying to kill themselves, I'll explain!" said Cobb, raising his voice. He frowned at Arthur. "I'm going to let you go, but I want you to listen to us and not try to bite your tongue off again, okay? We have some time left on the clock, and I have the feeling we're going to need all of it to figure something out."

Arthur didn't try to bite his tongue off again when Cobb removed his hand, mainly because he was curious about what the man had just said. "What do you mean there's still time left on the clock?" he asked.

"I mean that we're still dreaming," Cobb told him.

Arthur shook his head. "I just woke up."

"That was a dream too," explained Cobb. "It was a dream within a dream. It's something we've been experimenting with in subconscious security exploration, because we figured it was only a matter of time before you guys started trying it out. You see, we're not real extractors."

"Then what do you call this?" demanded Arthur. He waved his hand around to indicate the dream world. "You're hacking into my mind."

"We were doing it as a favor for an old friend," explained Cobb. "We didn't know what he was involved in. And now we know why he told us not to bother trying to see what was on that flashdrive." He looked at his two associates. "We were supposed to find out who you were in contact with, and that was all. Of course, you know that finding one detail that isn't easy, and that you need to do quite a lot of digging to get to what you're looking for."

"So you tried to figure out who June was on the last level," said Arthur, figuring out what their plan had been. "You told me she was there and my subconscious created a projection of her. And she told you what I'd been investigating?"

Cobb nodded, looking sick.

Arthur grimaced. "When you saw her . . ."

A hand fell on his shoulder. "She wouldn't want you to remember her that way, kid."

Arthur bristled. "Don't call me a kid, jackass."

"You know, he's trying to be nice, you ankle-biting sod," said Eames, defensively.

"It's okay, Eames," said Cobb quickly then focused on Arthur again. "I am sorry about what happened to her, Arthur. But you're getting your revenge, aren't you? You already got the information to your contacts."

"I'll die for real before I tell you who they are."

"I'm not asking you to tell me who they are," said Cobb. "Not now that I know what you were doing, and what kind of person Julius Marx really is."

Arthur glared at him. "I still don't trust you."

"I don't blame you." Cobb moved back from him a few inches, giving him some space, but was close enough that he could have stopped Arthur from biting off his tongue again if he made the attempt. "Can you figure out what we've got this layer of the dream set up for?"

"I don't appreciate being quizzed like a middle school student," Arthur told him.

"Because you're a freshman in high school now," said Eames. "Our little boy's growing up so fast." He faked a sniffle.

"We were trying to get the information on the flashdrive, to see if there was any way we could use it against you in our quest to find out who your contacts were," said Cobb. "This layer of the dream is Mal's. She put the computer in and created the fake encryption program. When she told you that your codes had been broken, and you thought they weren't protected anymore your mind filled the computer with unencrypted versions of those files."

"I know," growled Arthur. "I already figured it out. The only thing I can't figure out is why we're sitting here talking."

"Because we want to help you," said Cobb.

"I don't want your help."

"Well I think you kind of need it, dear," said Eames. "You're in a bit of a pinch, in case you haven't noticed."

"Yet if Hope has flown away, in a night or in a day, in a vision, or in none, is it therefore the less _gone_?" quoted Arthur, gritting his teeth to get the words out clearly. "_All_ that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream."

"What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?"

"That even if I did trust you, which I don't, there's nothing you can do to help me," growled Arthur. "Three subconscious security contractors, who aren't all that smart, and an extractor who's been beaten, drugged, shocked and starved for a week versus America's biggest human trafficking ring. There are at least twenty guys with guns in this house. Your chances of busting me out and all of us escaping alive are less than three eights of a percent."

"And what are your chances of escaping alone?" asked Cobb.

"Less than one one-hundredth of a percent." Arthur closed his eyes, feeling exhausted. "I've been waiting to die all week. I'm ready for it."

The contractors were silent, probably looking at him with pity.

"What I meant," said Cobb after a moment, "is what are your chances of escaping alone if we gave you a little help?"

Arthur opened his eyes and looked at the older man suspiciously.

"Listen," Cobb told him, leaning forward again, his eyes as serious and sincere as any Arthur had ever seen before. "Right now, up there, we're in this room. It's on the second story of Marx's ocean villa. It's built on cliffs overlooking the sea. After exiting this room, if you turn right and run to the end of the hallway, you'll find a pair of French doors. If you go through them, there's a picture window that looks out right over the ocean. If you can get to it, you've got a straight shot at freedom."

Arthur's suspicions did not abate, but for the first time in a long time he felt hope. "The fall would act as a kick," he muttered, more to himself than them.

"What?"

"I said the fall would act as a kick," Arthur repeated. "So I'd know I wasn't still in a dream. You can never hit the ground in your dreams. Or in this case, the water."

"But what's a kick?" asked Eames.

"He means a swan dive," said Cobb. "That's what we call a fall that wakes you up from a dream," he explained to Arthur.

"Kick is one syllable shorter and therefore more efficient," Arthur told him.

"We'll keep that in mind."

"I still don't trust you," said Arthur.

Cobb sighed and bowed his head. "We've done nothing to earn your trust, so I don't blame you. But we are going to try to help you."

Now Arthur was really suspicious. "Why?"

Cobb pointed toward the computer. "That's why."

"That's already been accomplished," Arthur reminded him. "They're going down whether I escape or not."

"Then how about this," said Cobb, sounding angry, and moving closer so that he was almost in Arthur's face. "You're, what? Twenty?"

"Twenty-f-"

"You're a kid! You should be in college, worrying about term papers instead of being here, tied up, worrying about being pumped full of drugs and handed off to some perverts who will rape and kill you! You have your whole life ahead of you, and you may have given up, but I am not going to give up on you!" shouted Cobb. "Now tell me, do you know how to swim?"

Arthur stared at him for several seconds then nodded. "I know how."

"In the real world, are you suffering from any injury that would make it impossible for you to run down a hallway and jump through a window?"

"No. But I am tied to a chair, in case you've forgotten, and I doubt that the ropes are going to be any looser when I wake up than they've been all week."

"We'll get them to untie you," said Cobb. He looked at his friends. "We'll tell Marx that he got the wrong guy, that you're some random kid who was paid fifty bucks to carry an encrypted flashdrive from point A to point B. As long as we give him no reason to suspect that we know the truth, he'll have no reason not to believe us."

"It could work," said Eames after a moment's consideration.

"It will work," said Mal. "We will make it." She moved so that she was kneeling beside Arthur and put a hand on his arm. "Forgive me, child."

Arthur almost jerked his arm away, but something in her eyes stopped him. She was sincere. She really was sorry about shooting him. If his leg didn't still feel like it was being dissolved in acid, Arthur might have actually been inclined to forgive her. "We'll see," he muttered. "Maybe if I live long enough."

Mal smiled and brushed his hair out of his face in a very motherly way. "You will," she promised him.

"I'm not holding my breath."

"No, but you will be," said Eames cheerfully. "You're going to be in the water quite awhile, darling."

* * *

Next Chapter: Arthur escapes, but the nightmare's not over yet. But at least he gets a clean suit, even if he does get it bloody again almost immediately . . .

Please review!


	3. Chapter 3

3

When Cobb opened his eyes the first thing he saw was Marx pacing anxiously in front of him.

"Well?" asked Marx. "Did you find out?"

Cobb shook his head as he unhooked himself, then glanced at the other dreamers. Mal was stirring. Eames was blinking away the last traces of sleep. Arthur still appeared to be in a deep sleep. That was not good.

"Julius," said Cobb. He struggled to keep his voice level after what he'd just found out about the man who'd been a family friend for so long. "I'm sorry. He's a red herring."

"What?"

"He doesn't know anything. He's just a college kid who needed money. A shady looking woman paid him to put on that suit, carry that flashdrive, and go where she told him to. He doesn't know her name, only that she paid him fifty bucks and paid for all his expenses every time she sent him somewhere."

"Damn it!" Marx kicked over a chair.

Immediately there was a knock on the door, then one of Marx' guards opened it. "Everything alright, Mr. Marx?"

"As alright as it can be," muttered Marx. He motioned to Arthur who's head was still lolling in deep slumber. "We're going to have to take care of him."

"You're letting him go?" asked Cobb and continued without waiting for an answer. "Good. He's just a kid and he's pretty confused and scared. Buying his silence should be pretty easy."

"Yes, of course," said Marx, but he continued to study Arthur. "My men will make the arrangements." He looked thoughtful for a couple moments, then a lewd smile crossed his face that Cobb doubted he would have noticed an hour ago. "Untie him and take him to Harold. This one's right up his alley."

Seeing that smile and knowing the context behind it made Cobb feel sick. What was worse, Arthur still showed no signs of waking, even though the time on the clock had run out. Had he slipped back into natural sleep or passed out? Or had Marx sedated him again?

Cobb didn't dare look at Mal or Eames. If they started looking at each other nervously then Marx would know something was up. Instead he watched as Marx's guards began untying Arthur, and tried to appear casual. All the while he willed the boy to wake up.

And the moment that the last of the ropes were unknotted from around Arthur's wrists he did wake up. Or more likely, he'd already been awake, but was pretending to be unconscious. He leapt into action, landing a punch to the first guard's face that completely smashed his nose, then kicked him in the knee hard enough to knock him down.

"Hey!"

The other guard only had time to say that one word before Arthur grabbed two handfuls of the older man's hair and jerked his head downward. His knee was waiting to meet the guard's face.

"Stop!" ordered Marx. "Somebody stop him!"

Cobb made a move as though to intervene but met Arthur's eyes, willing the boy to understand. Comprehension flitted across his opaque eyes and he grabbed Cobb by the arm and threw him with some sort of judo throw. Cobb landed on his back, winded, but without the broken nose that the two men who'd really tried to stop him were suffering from. By the time he actually hit the ground Arthur was already out the door.

* * *

Arthur turned right as soon as he reached the hallway and began sprinting as though his life depended on it, which it did. There was a set of French doors at the end of the hallway, just like Cobb said there'd be. He flung one open and didn't bother shutting it behind him or barricading it, because before him was the picture window, just as Cobb had described.

He didn't slow down, not even a little, just kept rushing toward it, knowing he'd need his speed. At the very last second he flung his arms up to cover his face and dived right through the glass.

Then he was falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

He hit the water with a splash.

_I'm awake. And I've got a chance to escape._ Arthur began swimming north, against the current, which kept trying to drag him south. South was where they'd look for him, so north was the way to go. He stayed under water as much as he could, but the second time he surfaced, he looked back at the villa on the cliff and saw several people standing at the picture window he'd just dived out of. _Thank you, Cobb_.

He swam for the better part of the day before finally dragging himself ashore, exhausted and waterlogged, but alive and free. His suit was completely ruined, but all in all, things could have gone much worse.

He'd kicked off his right shoe and disgarded it, almost as soon as he entered the water, but he'd left the left one on. Now he took it off and pulled up the padding inside of it to retrieve the emergency cash that he always kept stashed there. Five one-hundred dollar bills and three quarters. The quarters were so that he could make a call from a payphone, though payphones were getting harder and harder to find these days.

He came ashore on a small but touristy town, with a boardwalk, which was his good luck. People stared at him, but they were vacationers and easy to convince that nothing was wrong, since they didn't want anything shady spoiling their vacation. "My girlfriend's dog," he said whenever he noticed people staring, and he'd flash them a big fake smile that actually almost felt genuine because he was so happy to be alive and out of the hands of the human traffickers. "I shouldn't have hung on to the leash."

They smiled back and went on their way, and promptly forgot they'd ever seen the drenched man in the three piece suit, and Arthur stopped at the first tourist attire shop he came to and purchased sandals, a pair of shorts, and a t-shirt, and was suddenly indistinguishable from any other college student in town on summer break.

He found some food next and ate slowly so that he wouldn't make himself sick. Then he found a payphone, deposited his quarters, and dialed one of the many numbers he had memorized. "It's me," he told the man who answered.

"Arthur?" his contact sounded relieved. "We've been waiting to hear from you for days! Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Arthur told him, forcing his voice to remain cool and calm, even though the genuine concern that his contact felt for him made him feel like choking up. People caring about his wellbeing. People helping him. People saving his life. He wasn't used to it. He didn't want to get used to it. "Break the story," he told his contact. "Bring those bastards down."

"On it." On the other end of the line he heard his contact typing rapidly. "You're sure you're okay man? We've been worried."

"I couldn't be calling if I wasn't fine. I apologize for causing concern."

"Don't be sorry. I'm just glad you're okay. Everyone will be glad. Why don't you come back here and celebrate with us?"

"Because I'm on the other side of the country."

"It doesn't matter. We'll send a jet to pick you up."

"I have some other business to attend."

"Come on, man," cajoled his contact. "I've got your check cut and right here in my hand."

"You know the address to mail it to."

"Arthur," said his contact, "You're a hero. Come celebrate like one. Please. Everyone is going to want to see that you're okay with their own eyes. Come join us. You'll have a front row seat as we watch these bastards come toppling down."

"I can't," Arthur told him. "I have a debt to pay."

"We'll cover it. Give me the guy's name and address and I'll have the check in the mail within the hour."

Arthur hesitated. It seemed that he was really, really wanted in New York, and a front row seat to watching his enemies crumble was very tempting . . . but this was something he had to do himself. "He saved my life," Arthur said, letting his voice soften just a bit.

"Oh. Oh, I see. Alright then, I'll stop pressuring you. You do what you have to do, man. But give us a call next time you're in the Big Apple. I want to buy you a drink, man."

"We'll see," said Arthur. It was the best he could do.

Twenty minutes later he had disappeared into the masses of society.

* * *

Cobb, Mal, and Eames were at a bar when the story broke. It was so big that half the sporting events on for the night were postponed for those special news reports. Cobb was glad to see that the television stations had their priorities straight.

They watched in silence as prominent businessmen, celebrities, even politicians were arrested and led out of their homes in handcuffs because of their involvement. Cobb felt sick as he realized how big this thing actually was, and how close they'd come to helping destroy the man who'd made it possible to put a stop to it. He wondered if Arthur was okay, or if he'd drowned trying to escape, and he was glad that he didn't dream anymore because he was sure he'd only have nightmares about the kid's corpse washing up on some surf tormented shore, looking like crab food, his face a grotesque, scavengerized version of how June's had looked. Or if not that, then the nightmares would have probably been the ones that Arthur would have been having all week if he was still capable of dreaming. Nightmares of the kid being drugged into a stupor and handed off to some sadistic pervert.

"I'm sure he's alright," said Mal, watching her husband's troubled expression, knowing what caused it. "He was skinny, but he looked strong. And he knew how to swim."

"The little darling's much too obstinate to go down so easily," Eames agreed. "There's no way he drowned."

"We'll probably never know," muttered Cobb, staring at his beer. "He doesn't really seem like the type who'd even call home and let his parents know he was okay, let alone a couple strangers who just hacked into his mind."

"Trust me, dear, he's fine," said Eames. "Next time word of a Pendragon extraction trickles down through the grapevine, I'll give you a call."

"If he really was Pendragon," Cobb pointed out. "Pendragon's been an active extractor for eight years. The kid was only twenty-four or twenty-five."

"That old?" Eames asked with a smirk. "I wouldn't have put him at a day over seventeen."

"He had the tattoo," Mal reminded him. "I think he was the real deal."

Honestly, Cobb did too. And that bothered him even more. Just what the hell had happened to a kid like that to turn him into a professional dream thief at the ripe age of sixteen? How had he gotten all of those scars? It looked like someone deliberately tried to shred him. And how could someone who'd been through all of that still have a moral compass at all? Granted, Arthur had become a thief, but he'd invaded the dreams of human traffickers on this last job, to find out where he could get hard, indisputable evidence of their activities.

"He's strong," said Mal, as though she could read her husband's thoughts. "He's a good boy."

"Pity you can't adopt him," said Eames, finishing off beer and motioning to the bar tender to bring him a second. "I bet Philippa would love a big brother."

Cobb ignored that comment and threw back the rest of his own beer. "I just wish that I knew for certain that he was okay."

* * *

By evening Arthur was dressed once more in one of his trademark three piece suits, with his hair slicked back as per usual, a gun concealed inside of his suit jacket (couldn't be too careful since he was still in his enemies' backyard and not all of them were in handcuffs just yet), a check for half a million dollars made out to one Dominic Cobb in one hand, and the keys to a rental car in the other.

Normally he would never have sought out someone he'd met on one of his jobs, but normally those people didn't save him from a fate worse than death. He owed Cobb, and he hated owing anyone anything. He had made a million dollars off this last job. He figured that splitting it fifty-fifty with Cobb was fair and would make them even. Finding out the full name of the man he was signing the check for was pathetically easy with his resources. So was finding his home address.

When Arthur pulled into the driveway of the modest house that the Cobbs lived in, there was a stretch limo in their driveway. The Cobbs didn't own a limo. They owned a Volvo and a Saturn. But someone else Arthur had researched recently owned a limo. More than that, they owned this particular stretch limo.

One other car was in the driveway, a nondescript sedan that the research didn't show as belonging to either of the Cobbs, but Arthur knew they had a young daughter. Logic dictated that it must be their babysitter's car.

_They have a daughter. Marx is here. They're not._

"Fuck," swore Arthur, as he shifted his car into park. He left the engine running as he sprinted up the front porch, drawing his gun as he went. The front door had been left open. That was never a good sign.

He crept inside stealthily and wished that he'd bothered to get the blue prints for the house so that he'd know their layout. This was supposed to be simple. He was supposed to have just dropped off the check, told Cobb that now he didn't owe him, anything, and disappeared again. He wasn't supposed to be infiltrating the man's house with only nine shots and no backup, trying to save the guy's four-year-old daughter from the very man who'd employed Cobb to hack into his mind in the first place!

He found his first bit of trouble in the living room. Two of Marx's guards were tying up the babysitter and leering. It didn't take someone with an IQ as high as Arthur's to know what they were planning, and it didn't even take Arthur a full second to decide what he was going to do about this. He picked up a pillow off the couch, pressed the muzzle of his gun against it, then raised them both and aimed then pulled the trigger twice. The pillow muffled the sound of the two headshots. The babysitter screamed against her gag as one of the corpses fell across her.

Arthur hurried forward and pulled the body off her.

"Shhh," he said, pressing one finger against his lips, even though it wasn't strickly necessary for her to be quiet. Whoever else was there was probably expecting to hear her screams, but Arthur couldn't afford for her to go hysterical on him right now. "It's okay, I'm here to help you."

He began untying her. The girl didn't struggle against him. In fact, as soon as he was finished she threw herself at him and hugged him.

"Thank you," she sobbed, pressing her face against his shoulder. "You saved me. Thank you . . ."

"Uh . . . um, you're welcome." Arthur tried to pull away, but his damsel in distress was having none of that. She grabbed his face between her hands and pulled his face toward hers to give him a very long, very grateful kiss. Arthur was shocked enough by her actions that he didn't immediately pull away. He remained paralyzed for a good four seconds before renewing his efforts to disentangle himself from her. "Where's the baby?" he asked, even as he fended the babysitter off from trying to plant another kiss on him. Then he wondered if it was right to call a four-year-old a baby, but now wasn't the time to worry about things like terminology. "Where's Philippa?"

"They took her upstairs," said the babysitter.

"How many?"

"Three men," said the girl. "Two guys who looked like gorillas in suits, and a skinny older man with gray hair."

"Alright," Arthur said. "Only three of them." He stood and helped the babysitter to her feet. "I'm going to go kill them. I need you to get yourself out of here. Run to the neighbor's house and call the police. Then call the Cobbs and let them know what happened. Let them know that Marx is the one whose men attacked you two."

"Are you going to be okay?" asked the girl, clinging to his arms so needily, that if they were in any other situation, Arthur would have been positive she was trying to steal his watch, wallet, and cellphone.

"Yes. Now go –"

The girl grabbed his face again and pressed her lips against his as though she planned on trying to eat his face off. Again, Arthur was too surprised to react immediately, but his senses returned sooner this time and he managed to pry her off of him in under five seconds.

"Go," he ordered and the ran toward the staircase.

* * *

AN: Thank you for all the nice reviews! I was kind of worried I might not be able to write a story like this one, dealing with these subjects, and have it be very well received, since they're the kind of things we're not even allowed to talk about in school.

Some of my inspiration for this fic came from the Girl With The Dragon Tattoo trilogy, which my school's library doesn't have, and which my parents forbid me from reading, but which I read anyway. (down with censorship!) I wondered if anyone would notice the similarities. My mind just started connecting the dots when I was looking for a cool last name for Arthur, as well as a name for his mentor. And though I didn't intend for this fic to spawn enough ideas for a string of fics, that's what's kind of happened. (GD resilient parasites . . . ) So just to give a little information that will be revealed in future stories, but isn't a secret or a spoiler, my version of Arthur's character got that tattoo after he was apprenticed to Penrose (his mentor who saved him from a pretty bad home-life.) He chose his alias because it was similar to his mentor's, and because his real father used to read him stories about King Arthur Pendragon, and he aspired to have that sort of strength. Also, I needed to have a way for Cobb and co to be able to identify him. So there are actually reasons for that beyond paying homage to The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo.

Next time: Arthur ruins his new suit and kills people (not necessarily in that order), and the Cobbs get a call from their babysitter.


	4. Chapter 4

4

When Cobb's cellphone began ringing his reached for it so quickly that he actually fumbled while trying to get it open. It was irrational, he knew, but he kept hoping every time the pub door opened that a familiar stranger with dark hair and a too-old smile on his too-young face would walk in. Now it seemed that those hopes had translated over to his phone as well.

"Hello?" he asked, trying not to get his hopes any higher than they already were.

"Mr. Cobb?" a familiar female voice practically sobbed. "Mr. Cobb, it's me!"

"Christina?" Cobb felt his heart go cold. "What's wrong? Is Philippa okay?"

"Ah, ahm, well, not really," babbled Christina, "but she's going to be."

"What happened?" demanded Cobb, motioning toward Mal to get up. He saw his wife's face grow pale with worry.

"Well, um, I was watching TV and then these men came in. There were seven of them, and they had guns, and three of them took Philippa upstairs, and two of them tied me up, and the other three went into the kitchen. Then another man showed up and shot the two guys who were tying me up, and told me that everything was going to be alright. He went to go get Philippa and sent me to the neighbor's to call the police and you. He said to let you know that the guy who's men attacked me and Philippa is called Marx."

"Damn!" swore Cobb. "Jesus, please no!"

"It's okay, Mr. Cobb! The other guy who showed up said he was going to go kill them."

"What other guy? Who was he?" demanded Cobb.

"Uh, well he didn't tell me his name, but –"

"What did he look like?"

"Well, he was cute. He looked like he could be in college. Was wearing a suit, and his hair was slicked back. Really smooth looking, you know? Kind of like James Bond."

Arthur. The realization hit Cobb like a train. The young man that Christina was describing had to be Arthur. But how? And why? What was he doing there to begin with? And why would he be risking his life to save Cobb's daughter?

"He's fighting against six other men?" asked Cobb, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

"Only three. There are only three that are upstairs with Philippa."

"But you said there are three others in the kitchen."

"Oh. Yeah, I forgot about them, but they're not upstairs."

"Does he know about the other three?"

"Well . . . I didn't tell him about them . . ."

"God help him," whispered Cobb. "God save them both. Please . . ."

"Dom," said Mal, grabbing onto his arm. "What's going on? What's happening?"

"Oy! Everything okay?" asked Eames who'd followed them from the pub.

"No, everything's not okay!" shouted Cobb. He lowered his voice before continuing. "Marx is at our house with six of his men. They tied up our babysitter then took Philippa upstairs."

"No," whispered Mal. Her face grew even paler.

"But then Arthur showed up," said Cobb. "At least Christina's description sounds like it's Arthur. He killed two of them and went upstairs to deal with the three who took Philippa up there, but he doesn't know that there are three others who were in the kitchen."

"We've got to get back!" said Mal.

"I know," said Cobb, taking her hand. They began running toward their car. Eames followed them without asking or being asked. Cobb didn't object. If Eames wanted to be involved in this . . . well, he already was, and Cobb had bigger things to worry about.

Namely his daughter, his baby girl who he loved more than life itself, and the kid who'd already almost died once today, but was risking his life again to save her.

* * *

When Arthur heard the little girl's screams something inside of his mind dissolved. The barrier of cool logic that demanded he plan out every little detail of every plan, or at least view the situation objectively instead of rushing in, guns blazing. One second it was there. Then he heard Philippa screaming, and it was gone, and he was sprinting up the stairs, taking them two at a time, ready to shoot anything that moved.

Marx had left his two guards outside the room, guarding the door. Arthur was able to take one of them down before either could react. Unfortunately, the second one managed to get a lucky shot off. It got Arthur in the leg, halfway up his thigh, but close to the side, and missed the bone. Arthur screamed and staggered, but kept his gun level and squeezed off another shot. He'd been going for another headshot, but this time aimed too low and got the guard in the throat. Blood sprayed out of his busted artery like a fountain, and his scream turned into a gurgle.

"Shit," groaned Arthur, feeling pain burn through his entire leg, but thankfully his adrenaline kept him functioning. It also didn't hurt that he'd been kneecapped only that morning, and so he was used to dealing with much worse bullet wounds to his leg. He hurried to the door that the two thugs had been guarding, moving only a little slower than usual, flung the door open, then ducked.

A good thing he did too, because a bullet whizzed by right over his head.

Arthur quickly rolled to the side as another bullet hit the floor, right where he'd just been crouching. "Marx!" he shouted. "You're a dead man!"

"You!" Marx shouted right back. "I should have killed you when I had the chance."

"Yeah," Arthur told him. "You should have." He leaned back into the doorway, preparing to take a shot, but another gunshot was fired and he felt pain blossom in his upper right arm. "Fuck!" cried Arthur, and he knew that he was grimacing but he didn't really care at that moment. He had a clear shot. Marx was on the bed, on top of Cobb's daughter, keeping her pinned beneath him. Mercifully, both of them were still dressed, but it was clear that the little girl was scared witless. She screamed and kicked and tried to get free. "You die now!" shouted Arthur as he pulled the trigger.

His shot caught Marx right between the eyes, knocking the man backward. His weight carried him off the bed. Philippa screamed once more, then seemed to realize she was free. She jumped up and looked at her savior. Arthur slouched against the door frame feeling glad that this was over, relieved that the Cobb girl was safe, annoyed that he had just ruined yet another suit, and a little freaked out because the little girl was staring at him with wide eyes and he had no idea what to say to her. "Um . . . hi?" he tried when she didn't speak first.

"Are you a friend of my daddy's?" Philippa asked, looking at Arthur fearfully.

Arthur knew he probably should have lied and told her he was, but he really didn't feel like it. "No," he admitted. "I'm not."

Surprisingly, Philippa seemed okay with that. "Good," she told him. "That man was one of Daddy's friends. So were the other big men. I don't like Daddy's friends."

"Well, little girl," said Arthur sagely. "That's because your daddy's friends are all assholes."

"What's an asshole?" wondered Philippa.

"What your daddy's friends are."

"Oh."

Another gunshot shattered the awkward silence that descended upon the young man and the young girl. Arthur's side exploded in pain this time. Philippa screamed as he stumbled and went down on his knees.

"Fuck!" yelled Arthur as he saw three more thugs in cheap suits charging up the stairs. He staggered back to his feet and kicked the door shut behind him, no longer sure of what was going on. It occurred to him that this was starting to seem a little too much like a dream. The pain was real enough, yes, but then it always was.

"I'm scared," whimpered Philippa. Somehow her terrified little voice cut through the doubts that were creeping into Arthur's mind, making him wonder if he should put his pistol to his own head.

"I kind of am too," he told her and turned to lock the door. He moved away from it just as several shots were fired at it, through it. "I think . . ." he hissed in pain as he staggered toward Philippa, "I think we should leave."

"But the bad men are out there," protested Philippa.

"Out there, yes," agreed Arthur, tilting his head toward the door. Turning to point would hurt too damn much. "But not out there." He pointed to the window.

"But it's such a long way down."

"It's only the second story," Arthur assured her. "I've jumped from fourth story windows without breaking anything before. You just have to know how to land. Come on."

Amazingly, Philippa obeyed. Arthur opened her window and swung one leg over the sill, then held out his arms for her. "I'll carry you," he told her. "It will be okay."

Philippa climbed into his lap then wrapped her little arms around his neck. Arthur felt tears prickle his eyes when she accidentally hit his injured side while she was climbing, but held back his curses. He didn't want to scare her anymore than he had to.

"Now close your eyes and hold on tight," said Arthur as he swung his other leg out the window. The door burst open behind him. Arthur didn't even bother turning to look to see if the number of thugs (or were they projections?) had increased. He let himself drop from the ledge and did his best to concentrate on his landing.

When he hit the ground his leg screamed in pain and he nearly collapsed, but at least he knew that he wasn't dreaming. Not that that was much of a comfort. He set Philippa down because he had the feeling that just moving was going to take all of his strength now. "We have to run," he gasped, feeling sweat running down his back like rain now. "To my car. It's the burgundy colored one in your driveway."

"Burgundy?" asked Philippa. "What color is that?"

"Wine colored," elaborated Arthur. "Reddish . . . purplish," he said reluctantly when she still didn't seem to get it. "Just . . . go."

Another shot rang out.

"Run!" Arthur shouted at her, and did his best to follow his own advice. He tried to move in a serpentine pattern to throw off he attackers' aim. He wasn't worried so much for Philippa now, unless there were more guards waiting for them around front. There was much less chance that they would start shooting at her while he was still alive.

He made it to his rental car and managed to only catch one more bullet enroute. Or he didn't exactly catch it. It just grazed him, low along the right side of his neck. By now his heart was pumping so much adrenaline with his blood that he barely even felt it as he opened the back seat door of the car for Philippa.

"Get in!" he ordered. "Get on the floor and stay down!" He slammed the door behind her, not waiting to see if she followed his instructions or not, turned and shot at Marx's limo, taking out one of the front tires on the side that was closest to him, and doing the same to the babysitter's sedan before he got into the driver's seat, very glad that he'd left the ignition on. He shifted into reverse and stepped on the gas pedal. The car rocketed backwards up the driveway. When he reached the end of it, Arthur shifted the car into drive and then stomped down on the gas pedal again. Behind them the shooting had started once more, but the shots were wide and wild.

"I think we made it," Arthur told Philippa as they raced down the road at triple the small neighborhood's speed limit. "Hell yeah, I really think we made it!"

"We're safe?" asked Philippa, her voice trembling with relief.

"We're safe," promised Arthur. _As long as I don't bleed so much that I pass out and wreck the car._ "We just need to put some distance between ourselves and those bastards, then you can call your mommy and daddy and they can come get you. Sound alright?"

"Yes. It sounds good." Philippa climbed through the gap between the driver's seat and the passenger's seat, jostling Arthur's injured arm as she did so, then sat down in the passenger's seat.

Arthur frowned, remembered that there was some kind of rule about small children being in the front seat, but he couldn't remember if that was an actual safety issue or not. "You should put on your seatbelt," he told her, deciding to let his first concern go. She was a lot safer in the front seat, beside him, than she'd been in her own home with those cheap suit thugs.

"You're not wearing yours," Philippa pointed out.

"That's because your daddy's asshole friends shot me four times," retorted Arthur, "and putting on my seatbelt would hurt like hell."

"Oh." Philippa stared at him. "You're bleeding."

"I know. I'm actually trying not to think about that," Arthur said through gritted teeth.

"Why not?"

"Because it fucking hurts."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

Arthur exhaled slowly. He wanted to close his eyes, but was afraid if he kept them closed longer than it took for him to blink he might never open them again. "Don't be sorry. It's . . . going to be okay. You'll be back with your mommy and daddy again soon, and I . . . I'll be okay too."

_I hope._

* * *

AN: I'm trying so hard to write the last chapter of my Percy Jackson/Kane Chronicles crossover, but the words won't come, and meanwhile this fic is screaming that it wants to be written. Who am I not to obey? Lol But I do need to finish the other one. Then I can work on this one without feeling so guilty.

Next time: Philippa becomes convinced that Arthur is her big brother, and Arthur doesn't want to talk to Cobb on the phone.


	5. Chapter 5

5

Arthur had to drive with only one hand. His right arm was still usable, albeit painfully, but the wound on his neck began bleeding an alarming amount while he was driving, and he had to keep pressure on it so that he didn't bleed out.

Thankfully, the bleeding slowed to a trickle by the time they got off the highway. Arthur pulled into the parkinglot of the fourth motel they came to and managed to extricate five one-hundred dollar bills from his wallet one-handedly.

"I need you to do something for me, Philippa," he said, handing her the money. "What I need you to do is go through those doors and up to the person behind the desk. Tell them your big brother says we need a room for one night, and that if they don't ask any questions that all this is theirs. Can you do that?"

Philippa nodded and took the money. She started to get out of the car then stopped. "I tell them my big brother says so?"

"Yes." Arthur wiped a bead of sweat away from his brow. "You tell them that."

"Are you my big brother?"

Arthur stared at her, not sure if she was being serious or not. "For the next hour or two and for all intents and purposes, yes."

Philippa grinned at him then dashed off. Arthur leaned back against his seat and wiped the blood off his hands, on the inside of his suit jacket, trying to make himself as presentable as possible. The suit was ruined anyway.

Several minutes later Philippa came back with a room key and a handful of chocolates bearing the motel's logo. "Look what the lady gave to me!"

"That's . . . wonderful," said Arthur, easing himself out of the driver's seat. What was not wonderful was that their room was on the third floor and getting up there was a bitch and a half. They took the stairs. Arthur didn't want to risk running into someone in the elevator, or boxing themselves in. By the time they made it to the room, Arthur's entire leg felt on fire, and his head was starting to get spinny. He managed to lock the door behind him and deadbolt it then slid down it, glad to be able to sit down again.

"You look sick," Philippa told him, moving to stand right in front of him with one foot on either side of his legs, right in his face. "We should get Mommy to make you some chicken soup."

The very thought of food made Arthur feel like throwing up . . . but he was thirsty. "Water . . ." he whispered longingly.

Philippa looked at him thoughtfully then disappeared from his immediate field of vision. He heard a chair being pushed across the floor, then heard the water running. Several moments later, she was back in front of him with a glass of water. "You're thirsty?"

Arthur took the glass and drained it. The liquid's cold temperature seemed to help just as much as its hydrating properties, because he felt the coolness go straight to his head and chase away the hazy feeling that was plaguing him. "Thank you," he told her. "How about we call your Daddy now and have him come get you?"

"Okay!"

Arthur managed to remove the disposable cellphone he'd bought earlier from his jacket pocket and dialed the number that according to his research would connect him with Cobb's cellphone. Then he handed his phone to Philippa, knowing that she was the one Mr. and Mrs. Cobb would really be wanting to hear from.

* * *

Cobb felt like he was living in a nightmare. So did Mal if the way she kept putting her top down and spinning it was an indication of anything. He kept checking his own totem, twisting his wedding ring around on his finger, taking note of all the little knicks and stratches that only he knew were there. All of them were in place, and Mal's top kept on toppling.

The scene at his house when he arrived was . . . not good. That was the only polite way of phrasing it. There were five bodies, including Marx's. Almost all of them had died from a single headshot. Only one had been shot in the throat, and had bled a profuse amount, leaving a long trail of blood across the carpet and down the stairs before he'd finally killed over. Marx was found dead in Philippa's room, right beside her bed. From the blood splatter it looked like he'd actually been shot while he was on the bed. The implications of that filled Cobb with fear and dread so terrible that he felt like he was suffocating.

Then there was the fact that his daughter was missing and that the window was open, with a thin trail of blood leading to it. There was also the limo in their driveway with a blown out tire. The same treatment had been given to their babysitter's car.

"This is actually a good thing, mate," said Eames, trying to be confident in the face of the Cobb's dread. "The most likely scenario is that darling Arthur charged in like a white knight, made it all the way to Philippa's room, obviously killing everyone in his way, then discovered that there were more guards and left through the window with Philippa. He probably got grazed by a bullet or two. Not enough to put him out of the fight, only enough to leave a trail. Then he escaped in whatever car he came in and made sure that the bastards wouldn't be able to follow him too easily by shooting those tires."

"One of the neighbors' cars was stolen," whispered Mal.

"If those blokes are smart they took it and fled," said Eames. "Their employer's dead. They have nothing to gain chasing down two kids with such a big head start, especially since one of them has such a penchant for headshots."

It was true, but Cobb couldn't stop worrying. When he phone rang he grabbed for it like a lifeline and answered it immediately. "Hello?"

"Hi Daddy."

"Philippa . . ." Cobb felt tears come to his eyes. "Philippa, darling . . . are you okay?"

"Yes. I'm fine, Daddy. I'm here with my new brother."

"What? Brother?"

"His name is . . . What's your name?"

There was a muffled response.

"His name is Arthur. He said that for the next hour and for all intents and purposes he's my brother."

"Oh." Not the most intelligent answer in the world, but Cobb really didn't know what else to say, at least not immediately. "Well, uhm . . . You are okay, right? No one hurt you?"

"One of your friends hurt me. He squeezed me and threw me on my bed then sat on me, but then Arthur came in and stopped him."

"So he didn't . . . he didn't do anything else to you?"

"Well, he yelled at me . . . wait a second . . ." her voice got a bit softer as she spoke without her mouth to the phone. "What's _it?_ Are you sure he'll know? Okay." Then her voice got louder again. "Arthur says to tell you that _it_ didn't happen and that you don't have to worry."

"Thank God." Cobb grabbed his wife and pulled her into a relieved hug. She couldn't hear what Philippa was saying, but from her husband's side of the conversation she could tell what was going on. She squeezed him back and her knees must have gone weak with relief because she was clinging to him.

"Arthur also said all your friends are assholes. What's an asshole, Daddy?"

"Err . . . Where are you now, Philippa?" asked Cobb.

"I'm with Arthur. Huh? Okay. He says to tell you we're in the Hollow Way Motel off the highway. Room 310. He says not to bring any goddamn cops because he doesn't want to get hauled off to jail, but to come get me. You will come, right? I want to see you, Daddy."

"Yes, honey," said Cobb, close to tears again. "We're coming. You just . . . stay with Arthur. He's taking good care of you, isn't he?"

"He is, but he looks sick. Tell Mommy to bring him some soup."

"I will, sweetheart. We're on our way now. Honey, can you put Arthur on?"

"Okay. Daddy wants to talk to you."

There was a shuffling noise, then a sound like the phone had been dropped. Finally, after a little more fumbling, Arthur answered. "What?"

"Arthur? Arthur Pendragon, right?" asked Cobb, even though he didn't really need to. The icy, suspicious voice was unmistakable.

"What do you think?" his tone was harsh and impatient, but Cobb didn't miss the way his words were slurring slightly.

"I don't know how to thank you for what you've done. I can't thank you enough –"

"You can pick up your kid without leading the cops right to me."

"I will. I promise. I just . . . you saved my daughter. I . . . I . . . don't even know what to say, you don't know what you've done for me, and I –"

"Philippa wants to talk to you again."

"Wait!" said Cobb urgently.

"Do you really have anything to say to me, Cobb?" asked Arthur sounding very irritable.

"Are you okay? On the window sill there was blood and Philippa said you don't look good, and . . ." Cobb knew he was babbling, but he didn't care. He had never been in a situation like this before, God willing he would never be in a situation like this again, and even though he was usually very good at fast talking and staying cool-headed, he couldn't keep his thoughts in order. "Did you get shot saving my daughter?"

"They're all flesh-wounds. I've had worse."

"All? You were shot more than once?"

"I mean it's a fleshwound," said Arthur. "And I've had worse."

Remembering all the scars on his chest and stomach, Cobb believed him, at least about the having worse part, not about the only being shot once part, but he still didn't like the sound of that slurring. "You're sure you're okay? If you need to go to a hospital –"

"No hospital," said Arthur flatly. "Just . . . just come get your daughter. And introduce yourself when you knock, so I know it's you, or I'm going to start shooting through the door."

"Alright, but –"

"Here's Philippa again."

There was more shuffling and muffled noises as the phone changed hands again. "Hi Daddy!"

"Hi sweetheart."

"Can I talk to Mommy?"

"Of course. Mommy's right here." Cobb handed the phone to his wife as they reached their car. Once again Eames got in the back and Cobb slid into the driver's seat.

"Everything's okay?" asked Eames.

"Yeah," said Cobb, hardly able to believe it. "Yeah. Everything's okay. Philippa's safe. Arthur saved her. He got to her in time. God, I just . . ."

"You need me to drive?"

"No, I'm okay." Cobb smiled and shifted the car into drive as his wife slid into the passenger's seat. "Everything's okay," he said again, and this time that fact really set in.

* * *

Arthur clawed his way back to his feet and staggered to the bathroom, snagging a book of motel matches off the counter as he went. He needed to patch himself up, he knew, or there was a real possibility that he wouldn't survive the night.

Cleaning himself up from four bullet wounds was neither fun nor easy. He had to dig the bullet out of his arm with nothing but his Swiss-Army-Knife and nothing to numb to pain. He kept his teeth clamped down on a towel to muffle his screams so that he didn't scare Philippa, who continued chatting merrily with her parents in the other room.

His side wound wasn't as bad. It was little more than a graze and the bullet had gone straight through and missed anything vital. Same with his leg injury, even thought that one hurt like a bitch. His neck was the worst. It kept bleeding sluggishly, even after he'd kept pressure on it for so long. With a sigh he removed one of the last two bullets from his gun, and pulled the actual bullet out of the cap. He poured the gunpowder directly into the bullet wound then lit a match and pressed it to the powder. Red hot pain brought him to his knees and he felt sobs trying to claw free of his chest.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, the pain subsided. He splashed some more water on his face and cleaned up his blood as best he could, then stumbled back out into the room.

"Daddy wants to talk to you again," said Philippa as he collapsed onto one of the beds.

"Tell your daddy I said to go to hell," responded Arthur, closing his eyes.

"Arthur says to go to hell, Daddy . . . Okay. Daddy says to tell you that we're almost here."

"Fine, fine." Arthur closed his eyes. Some time must have passed, because the next thing he knew someone was knocking on the door.

"It's me. Cobb," said the man, obeying Arthur's instructions to identify himself when he knocked.

"Daddy's here!" said Philippa happily.

Arthur tried to sit up his muscles rebelled and he remained limp on the bed. "Err . . . Philippa? Do you know how to open the door?"

"I think so."

Arthur heard her start dragging the chair across the room again.

"Is everything alright in there?" asked Cobb.

"Fine, Daddy! I'm opening the door!"

Things went hazy again, then the next thing Arthur knew, someone was standing over him. Arthur saw a hand reaching toward his face and for a moment he forgot the entire dayy's events.

"No! Don't touch me!" he weakly raised one of his own hands and tried to bat the intruding arm away. "Don't . . . don't . . ."

"Hey, hey, it's okay," said Cobb holding up his hands in a nonthreatening way. "It's okay Arthur. It's me. Dom."

"Cobb?" Arthur coughed painfully.

"Yeah."

"You got Philippa okay?"

"Yes. She's right here. So's Mal and Eames."

"Great," muttered Arthur. "Now go away."

"See, Mommy! He's been my brother for an hour and I really like him. Can we keep him?" Philippa was asking.

"We'll see, dear," was Mrs. Cobb's answer.

"He needs a hospital," said Eames, sounding uncharacterisitically serious. "I count four bullet wounds, no one of them too serious, but anyone who gets shot four times needs real medical care."

"No hospital," insisted Arthur. "You've got your daughter back safely. Now just go."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Arthur," said Cobb. "You look really bad. I'm afraid if I just leave you here –"

"It's not your problem, Cobb," said Arthur, breathing heavily. "Just take your daughter . . . and this . . . and get out of my room." He managed to dig the check he'd gotten printed for Cobb out of his pocket.

"This is a check for half a million dollars," said Cobb incredulously.

"Was stopping by to give it to you," said Arthur. "That makes us even."

"I can't accept this."

"Sure you can."

"Even if I was inclined to, no bank would take a check splattered with this much blood."

Arthur hadn't thought about that. "I'll mail you a new one."

"Please don't," said Cobb. "Let us help you, now, Arthur."

"We're even now. You saved my life. I saved your daughter's and gave you half my share. We don't owe each other a thing." Arguing was becoming harder. Hell, just breathing was becoming harder.

"That's not true. We owe you so much more for what you've done for us," said Mal, moving closer to the bed. "Please, Arthur. Let us help you."

"No hospital," muttered Arthur.

"We won't go to a hospital then. We'll take you home with us."

Arthur shook his head, then decided never to do that again. The room shouldn't have been spinning while he was lying down like that. "Cops," he reminded the Cobbs.

Mal sat down beside him and ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. "We'll take ou somewhere else then. We'll take care of you. We'll make sure you're okay, child. Is that alright?"

"Okay, Mom," whispered Arthur, because he was too tired to argue anymore. Then he realized that his grip on what was really going on was slipping because Mal was most definitely not his mother, and if she was, he'd be giving her the cold shoulder, not giving in to what she wanted. Not that his mother would have been trying to take care of him anyway, but that wasn't the point. "Sorry. I mean . . ." but he didn't get a chance to say what he meant. His eyes refused to stay open any longer and he drifted off into a long, dreamless sleep.

* * *

To be concluded in the next chapter . . .


	6. Chapter 6

6

Cobb stood back and watched as Mal swabbed the washcloth over Arthur's chest. The young extractor had broken out in a fever during the night, his sleep growing fitful. He worried that they might have to break their promise to Arthur and take him to a hospital after all if the fever persisted.

"It's enough to break my heart," said Mal, looking up at her husband as she ran the washcloth over one of Arthur's scar clusters. "These were deliberate. Someone held him down and cut him like a slab of steak. What sort of monster could do something like that to such a sweet young man?"

Cobb smiled sadly. "What I keep wondering is how did he turn out the way he did? How can anyone keep a moral compass after something like that?" He gestured toward the collage of scars that covered Arthur's chest and stomach. "How can anyone be that strong?"

Mal dipped the cloth into the bowl of cool water resting in her lap, wrung it out, then pressed it against Arthur's forehead. "He's that strong because he is a knight, of course," she said playfully. "He is the Pendragon, you might recall."

Cobb sat down beside his wife and kissed her temple. "He's a good kid," he told her. "And we owe him so much."

"It's a pity we can't adopt him," said Mal, cupping Arthur's sleeping face. "It tugged at my heartstrings when he mistook me for his mother."

"Philippa's devastated that we can't keep him too," said Cobb. "Legally adopting him might be out of the question . . . but you know we could offer him the next best thing. There's room in our subconscious security firm for a man like him, don't you think?"

Mal smiled but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I don't think he'll accept," she admitted.

"Because they money won't be good enough?"

"No," said Mal. "Because he still doesn't trust us. His eyes have that haunted look, like a puppy that's been kicked too many times. That's not going to change overnight. Not even for something like this, I'm afraid."

"He works with other extractors," pointed out Cobb.

"Not regularly," said Mal. "If the rumors are right then Penrose is the only one he works with regularly. All others are on a need-to basis only."

She was right, Cobb knew, but he didn't like it. "I just want to help him," he said.

"We'll make the offer," said Mal. "He'll refuse it this time, but somehow I doubt this will be the last time we see him."

"What makes you say that?"

"Our paths have become so entangled in only one day," said Mal, "and the world of extractors and contractors is not so large. We'll run into him again, I'm sure. Of course he might always surprise us and accept this time. If not, we'll just have to be persistent. We know he'll be worth it."

She pulled the comforter over Arthur's sleeping form and tucked it around him.

* * *

Arthur sat on a sandy beach, watching the waves crash on the shore. It was hot. Dreadfully so. Heat haze rose up from the golden sand, distorting the air all up and down the beach. It was only dumb luck that he was wearing khakis and a polo shirt instead of one of his trademark three piece suits. Or maybe not luck, since what he was wearing now covered less skin and he was certain that his skin was going to start searing in the sunlight.

He looked around to see if maybe he'd brought some sunscreen with him, because God knew he was going to need it, since he didn't feel like having to take time off from work to get a couple melanomas removed. But he didn't see anything around him. No beach blanket, or umbrella, or ice chest, or even a chair. He didn't even have any shoes or socks.

The wrongness started to creep up on Arthur as he realized the oddity of this.

_How did I get here?_ he asked himself. He couldn't remember. He couldn't even think of a reason why he'd want to be here. He hated the beach.

"Arthur?"

He jerked his head sharply to look over his shoulder. Cobb was approaching, dressed in jean shorts that ended at his knees and a Hawaiian shirt. He looked much more like he was prepared for a day at the beach than Arthur was.

"What's going on?" demanded Arthur. "Why are you in my head again? And if you had to do this, couldn't you have chosen somewhere that wasn't so damn hot?"

Cobb sat down beside him, still looking worried. "Sorry about invading your head again, kid –"

"Don't call me a kid," said Arthur automatically.

"Right. Anyway, you've been unconscious for awhile and I wanted to check on you."

"Unconscious?" asked Arthur. "What? Why?" Memories flickered through his mind at a speed that made him wince. "Philippa! Is she okay?"

"She's fine," Cobb told him. "Thanks to you. I owe you everything –"

"You owe me an explanation," said Arthur flatly. "What's going on?"

"You're still unconscious," Cobb told him. "Around midnight you developed a fever. Mal's got you covered with about seven blankets, which is probably why this dream is so sweltering. Eames has some connections to a pharmacist in case we need to get you medicine off the books, but Mal had the idea of hooking you up to the PASIV since the somnacin has antipyretic properties, and since there was no chance of you being allergic to it. I thought it would be a good idea if one of us came into your dream and checked on you so that you knew what was going on."

"Oh." Well, that explained some things. And with those answers Arthur was finally able to relax a little bit.

"Are you feeling okay?" asked Cobb.

Arthur considered then nodded.

"Why do I have the feeling that you're lying?" Cobb wanted to know.

"Maybe because you don't know me very well," suggested Arthur, annoyed.

Cobb shrugged and looked out at the surf. "You like the ocean?" he asked after they'd sat in silence for several minutes.

"No. I especially hate beaches." Arthur made a face. "I don't find salt, murky water, dead fish, heat waves, and sand to be a good combination."

"So that explains it," said Cobb.

"Explains what?"

"Why you dreamt this place." Cobb explained. "This is your dream, not mine. We were worried that you might have created something . . . painful. The result of your subconscious taking your wounds and fever into account. I was surprised to find that you'd actually created a nice dreamscape. Or at least one that I consider nice. But if this is the sort of place that makes you uncomfortable . . ."

Arthur looked around the dream beach then shrugged. "It's better than dreaming myself back in Marx's villa. You should choose your friends more carefully, for the record. Most people draw a line in the sand where pedophiles and human traffickers are concerned."

"I didn't know," said Cobb. "If I'd had any idea I would have turned him in myself. If I'd had the chance I would have shot him myself for what he tried to do to my daughter."

Arthur looked away from him and stared at the surf again. "You're a good father, then." He couldn't quite keep a wistful note out of his voice, and he knew that Cobb was too sharp not to pick up on it.

"And you're a good person," Cobb told him.

Arthur almost laughed at that. "I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm a dream thief. All the research shows that you hate people like me. I hack into peoples' minds and steal their secrets, then sell them to the highest bidder. I kill people and I cuss in front of children. Your daughter's probably picked up some four-letter-words that neither you or your wife will appreciate."

"If she's alive to develop a colorful vocabulary that's good enough for me. And you . . . . You have morals. You know where to draw the line. You protect people." Cobb it seemed was adamant about believing the best in him. "You're a good person, Arthur. June knew it too."

Arthur exhaled sharply then glared at Cobb. "Don't talk about her. She's none of your business."

"She was a smart woman. She could see the type of person you were. And she was right. Every good person should have at least one other person who knows that they're good, even if they try so hard to hide it. Well, now you have four people who know that you're a good man."

"Four?"

"Me, Mal, Eames, and of course, your new little sister." Cobb smiled wryly. "She keeps asking us if we can keep you. I told her we'd talk to you about it."

Arthur was confused by that. "What?"

"I want to offer you a job," said Cobb. "Come work for my security firm."

That one was a no-brainer. "Hell no," Arthur told him.

"We pay on commission, give bonuses twice a year, and offer benefits."

"I'm an extractor, not a contractor," said Arthur angrily.

"Eames used to say the same thing." Cobb's frown made it clear that he knew that sometimes Eames still said the same thing. A forger as good as Eames could pass undetected in just about anyone's dream, but in the circles extractors ran in they were anything but unnoticeable. Arthur had heard plenty about Eames and knew that he still did extraction jobs on a regular basis.

"I like what I do," said Arthur, deciding not to bring that up.

"I'm not just offering you a job," said Cobb. "I'm also offering you friendship. A chance for a new life, a new family. No more running and laying low, always having to look over your shoulder. Think about it –"

"I don't need to," said Arthur curtly. "The answer's still no."

Cobb shrugged. "Well, if you ever change your mind –"

"I won't."

"It's an open offer," continued Cobb as if he hadn't been shot down multiple times already. "If ever you want one, you've got a job with us. But the friendship offer isn't linked with the job. You've got that whether you want it or not."

"I'm touched," muttered Arthur, and decided to turn the tables on Cobb. "But you know . . . the work you and your team did wasn't half bad. The whole dream within a dream thing. That's actually an excellent idea for performing extraction."

Cobb frowned at him.

"Don't worry, I won't be sharing it," promised Arthur. "I'm planning to keep it for myself. Well, I'll probably tell Penrose about it, since it looked like you need at least two people to pull it off, but no one else. We've got to stay ahead of the competition after all. So the only extractors benefitting from your brilliant idea will be me and Mr. Penrose."

"Why does that not make me feel any better?" wondered Cobb.

"I couldn't tell you," said Arthur, "but I will say, if you ever want to go into extracting, look me up. I'd be willing to team up with you for a couple jobs and help you start making a name for yourself. Within a year you could probably be known as one of the top ten extractors."

Cobb shook his head. "Just when I was starting to wonder if you had a sense of humor."

Arthur was affronted. "I wasn't joking."

Cobb looked at his watch. "We don't have too much time left," he told Arthur. "I'll be waking up soon. Your somnacin will be wearing off too, but I don't know if you'll wake up yet."

Arthur hesitated a moment, common sense battling with his mistrustful survival instincts, before he finally decided that Cobb probably felt enough gratitude toward him not to misuse what he was about to reveal, and that the possible consequences of not speaking up were too risky.

"No penicillin."

"What?"

"If you use Eames' pharmacy connections," Arthur told him. "No penicillin."

"You're allergic to it?" asked Cobb.

Arthur gave him a dark look, which Cobb interpreted as a yes.

"Are you allergic to anything else?"

Arthur shook his head.

Cobb put a hand on his shoulder and Arthur couldn't suppress a flinch. "Trust us," he said, catching Arthur's gaze and holding it with his own. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you. Not after what you did for my family. As long as you're under my care you're safe."

Arthur felt a prickling behind his eyes, a sensation he wasn't used to at all. He blinked rapidly and tried to steel himself against the emotions that were coming unbidden.

Cobb watched him with an odd look on his face. He seemed to be debating about whether or not to say something else. He glanced at his watch again and then decided to speak.

"And Arthur? If . . . I want you to know that . . . If you'd been my son I never would have let anyone hurt you like that." His eyes dropped to Arthur's chest, and Arthur knew he was thinking of the collage of scars hidden beneath the polo shirt.

And then, without warning, he was gone. As was the hand on Arthur's shoulder. But not the tightness that had begun welling up in his chest. Arthur closed his eyes against the pain.

And when he opened them he was no longer on the beach, but staring up at a pale yellow ceiling. Blankets were covering him, practically smothering him. Just to the left of the bed he saw an IV stand with a bag of clear liquid dripping slowly through the tubes and the needle in his arm. For a second he panicked, but then remembered the events that had led to him passing out the last time. He was in the Cobbs' care. That much was obvious just from the fact that he wasn't tied down. So it was probably sugar water dripping into his arm rather than sodium-pentathol or some sort of sedative to keep him under.

His dream came back to him in hazy flashes, but there was no PASIV device in his field of vision, so he hypothesized that some time had passed between when the dream ended and when he'd woken up. It didn't occur to him for a second that his dream had only just ended, and that it had been a natural one. He hadn't had a dream without using the device since he was sixteen. The combat training that his mentor had put him through alone was enough to rid him of any images flowing through his head naturally when he entered a REM cycle.

Slowly, Arthur sat up. It took more effort than he would have liked, but he managed, then checked his bullet wounds. They were all dressed neatly, much better than his slipshod job of bandaging them up with cut up motel towels. He could smell the sharp scent of healing salve, and the skin directly around the new bandages wasn't inflamed. Always a good sign.

He leaned against the headboard because if he laid back down then it would take too much effort to sit up again, then concentrated, trying to figure out how much time had elapsed since he'd passed out. He had an unusual knack for keeping track of time, even when he was unconscious. Or particularly when he was unconscious. It was very useful in dreams to be able to always calculate how much time had passed in the dream, as opposed to in the real world, and how much time he had left in either one.

As near as he could tell, it seemed like fourteen or fifteen hours had gone by. Not too bad, all things considered. His fever must have dropped off awhile back since he didn't have someone constantly monitoring him . . . though he did spot a baby monitor right beside his bed and felt particularly affronted by it. As quietly as he could, he removed his pillow from its case and wrapped the monitor in it to dampen any sounds, then put it under the pillow itself, before unhooking himself from the IV and getting out of bed. His personal effects, like his wallet and the disposable cell phone he'd last seen Philippa holding, were on a nearby chair. There was also a set of clean clothes there too. They must have been Cobb's things, Arthur guessed, because they fit him but were a little big on him. And a lot more casual than how he usually dressed. T-shirts were not his usual choice, and he couldn't remember the last time he wore jeans. He hadn't been this dressed down since he was sixteen!

Walking wasn't as bad as he'd feared it would be, probably because the Cobbs had kept him hooked up to an IV and kept him hydrated. He made it all the way across the room without falling down once. It was easier in the halls since he had a wall to lean on.

When he got down to the kitchen he found that Mal was cooking something. From the looks of it, it seemed to be chicken soup. Her back was to him but she must have heard him enter because she called back over her shoulder, "Could you grab a colander for me, Eames?"

Arthur searched his mind for a definition to match this word then came up blank. "What's a colander?" he asked.

Mal dropped what she was holding and spun around to face him. "Arthur! What are you doing out of bed?" she demanded.

Arthur would have shrugged, but it would have pulled on his bullet wounds. "I woke up," he said, knowing that really wasn't an explanation, but not having a better one to offer. Did these people expect him just to lay around once he was capable of being back on his feet?

Mal pulled out a chair and pointed at it imperiously. "Sit," she ordered.

Wondering if that was how dogs felt when given that command, Arthur obeyed. "Is Philippa okay?" he asked once he was seated.

Mal's face softened and she nodded, seeming to remember that the injured young man she was trying to take care of with an iron fist was actually a ruthless killer who'd saved her daughter's life. "She's at preschool. Dom wanted her to stay home, but I insisted she return to her normal routine. She's safe. You kept the unthinkable from happening to her. She doesn't even know what you did for her . . . I wanted her life to continue as normal. Of course Dom is still being a protective father. He's sitting outside in the parkinglot with a handgun in easy reach."

Arthur nodded. He'd expected no less from a man like Cobb. "Your babysitter?" he asked. "She's okay too?"

A smile spread across Mal's face, one filled with unholy glee. "Quite," she told him. "More than okay, she's in love. I'll give you one guess who her desired paramour is."

"She doesn't know me," said Arthur warily. This conversation was going in a direction he wasn't sure how to deal with.

"Who was that masked man who rode off into the sunset?" asked Mal with the air of someone quoting from a movie or television program. "I never got a chance to thank him."

Despite how she was constantly teasing him, Arthur found Mal very easy and pleasant to talk to. Charming, he supposed was the best adjective to describe her. Lovely in looks and personality, sympathetic but not overly so, intelligent and observant and caring and sincere. In other words, dangerous. At least for someone in Arthur's profession. He could tell that Mal would make one hell of an extractor if she ever chose to try her hand at it seriously. For some ridiculously odd reason, the idea of executing an extraction with both Mal and Cobb working alongside him was particularly appealing. Arthur wasn't sure whether it was a better idea to shove those thoughts down and repress them, or to try to convince Mal to join the dark side. It was a conundrum.

They talked throughout the afternoon. Mal continued to cook, finished the soup and fed Arthur a bowl, along with some homemade bread which tasted so good that it nearly brought tears to Arthur's eyes. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a home-cooked meal.

Eames showed up when Arthur was about finished eating. Arthur immediately noticed that the forger was concealing not one but two guns. And he hadn't missed the fact that Mal was concealing three.

_They're taking more precautions now, _he realized._ They're learning._ Carrying weapons was second nature to extractors. You never knew who was going to come after you with a grudge and a Louisville Slugger. As security contractors, the Cobbs should have been safe. Or at least safe from the threat of bodily injury or mortal peril. No one should have had any reason to want them out of the picture, except the occasional disgruntled extractor who was tired of getting sniped off by militarized projections, but that was just talk. Contractors were, sometimes, the targets of extractors, since in the course of their works they often stumbled upon their employers' secrets. Arthur himself had hacked into the minds of contractors, at a substantial profit. It was difficult as hell, and it took a lot of balls to even think of trying it, but when it worked it paid off big time.

Eames made a general nuisance of himself until Cobb and Philippa returned. In that time Arthur had learned that the crack down on the human trafficking ring had been on the news all night and all morning, and that all of the ringleaders had been arrested as well as most of their subordinates.

Philippa entered the kitchen with a squeal and a lunge, and Arthur learned just how hard a four-year-old's death grip could be as she jarred his bullet wounds in her attempt to hug him. He barely managed to hold back a curse as the little girl began jabbering to him how she told everyone at preschool about her new brother, and how she wanted to take him to show-and-tell, and that Daddy said no, but since it was clear Arthur didn't always listen to Daddy, maybe he would come anyway?

"I'm sorry, Philippa," said Arthur when the little girl finally had to pause for breath. "But I'm not going to be staying around much longer."

"But . . . why?" Philippa looked up at him tearfully.

Arthur glanced at Mal, Cobb, and Eames, and saw them all barely able to hold back their laughter at this exchange. He was surprised that he wasn't more annoyed, but somehow Philippa seemed to raise the bar for what he would and would not tolerate.

"Well, Philippa," he said, fighting to keep his voice straight, "I have to go hack into someone else's mind, and steal their secrets, and make a lot of money, and your parents don't approve of it."

"But . . . but they're your parents now too, if you're my brother . . ." said Philippa. "Right?"

"Err . . ." Arthur looked at Cobb and Mal, willing them to jump in and help him out. But it was obvious at a glance that no help would be forthcoming. Their expressions were tolerant and amused, despite the admission of what he intended to do. Well, it wasn't like they didn't already know. He'd wondered how much Philippa knew about her parents' work, and how much she actually understood about what he'd just said, but asking would make him feel too much like he was pumping the girl for information. "Well, they don't want any extracting done under their roof," Arthur told her. "Not that I'd be doing the actual extracting in their house. Extraction requires quite a bit of specificity, so I'd have to identify a suitable window of opportunity which would allow me to drug my subject and hack into his dreams to –"

"What he's saying is that he has to go back to school," said Mal, finally interrupting. "College. Big kid's school, remember? Where they sleep away from home. But he'll come back and visit. Won't you Arthur?"

Arthur hesitated. Not likely, was the real answer, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to say that in front of Philippa. "Yes," he said. "When I get a chance." And somehow, as the words left his mouth, he knew that he would indeed be coming back to visit, though he didn't quite know why. "I'll even bring you a present," he added on a whim.

Philippa's eyes lit up. "A present? Like what?"

Arthur blanked. What sort of present was appropriate for a four-year-old girl? Or rather, what sort of present was appropriate that he would actually be willing to get her? Somehow he couldn't picture himself walking into a toy store and buying a doll. How young was too young for nice jewelry?

Thankfully, Philippa offered him a suitable suggestion. "I want a pony."

"Philippa," chided Mal. "Your father and I have already told you no ponies. And you can't ask someone for such an expensive present. It's rude."

_I could get her one, _Arthur realized, feeling a wicked sense of glee._ I could buy her a whole damn stable if I wanted to._ He had long ago acquired far more money than he was ever likely to spend in his life. And he had long since realized that he didn't do extractions anymore just for the money. It was the extractions themselves that made it worth it, and the feelings they brought. A sense of purpose and the thrill of the hunt as he researched his subject. The rush that came with ferreting out a target's secrets. The sense of satisfaction after a successful job, the feeling that he'd accomplished something as he turned over the information to his employers and watched his subjects get their just deserts.

And then Arthur realized, much to his chagrin, that what he was feeling right now, there in the kitchen of the Cobb family's summer home, was something else that he wanted to feel again. Serenity. Warmth. Good humor. A sense of . . . belonging? The only thing that Arthur had to compare it to were some faraway memories from long ago that had been tainted by the much darker memories that followed, and the commraderie he felt while working with his mentor, Penrose. And he knew, right then and there, that like extraction this was something that he'd be coming back to.

THE END

* * *

AN: Sorry it took me awhile to get this last chapter written. School started, and I've got a ton of homework, and cross country practices and meets, and a couple books I've been waiting to read came out in the past few weeks. (Sorry if this story slips into first person. I reread the first two Hunger Games books to be ready for when Mockingjay came out, and it seems that my tendency to mimic what I see is working against me again)

There's also a book by a new author that just came out, that I'd never heard of before, but I picked up a copy because it looked really good, and I wasn't disappointed. It's called _Nevermore_ and it's by Kelly Creagh. It's the story of how a girl on the cheerleading squad of her highschool and one of the school's biggest Goths are assigned to work on a project together for English class, and end up doing their project on Edgar Allan Poe. Then, as if their clashing personalities didn't make it hard enough for them, things start to get really, really creepy. And it's not the clichéd 'the stories start to come to life' type of creepy that I was expecting. It's more of a look into the heart of madness and questionable realities type of creepy. And dream theory and dreams within dreams were dealt with in the book as well. At some points it actually reminded me of Inception, probably because they both used Poe's works as their inspiration.

Confession: I'm a huge fan of Poe's works, so part of the reason I loved Inception so much was that I could see the influence of his poetry on the movie. If you've never read his poem "A Dream Within a Dream," please look it up and check it out. It adds a whole nother layer to the movie, from the ocean imagery/symbolism, to the themes about reality, it just fits so perfectly. Not that I wouldn't have loved Inception anyway, but it's like how the perfect soundtrack makes a movie that much better. That poem, in my mind, is like another track for the movie.

Sorry, I tend to go on and on when talking about things that get me excited, like good books, movies, poems, etc. Time to wrap this up, but first, to answer a question I've been asked a lot, yes, I am going to write a sequel! I think it will be interesting to write how Arthur's relationship with the Cobbs progresses from here. Them trying to get him to give up his life of crime, him trying to convince them to join the dark side, Eames along for the ride, and Philippa . . . well it will be interesting to see if she gets a pony or not, lol. I hope you'll check back and read the next fic, but in the meantime, please review!


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